Writing Wrongs
by AlexWayne
Summary: Set during S3 E6: Billy. In the aftermath of Wesley's possession, what went through his head before Fred came to visit?


The room was dark and cold. It suited Wesley just fine. The temperature didn't matter to him much, after all, he was hardly there at all to feel it. To feel anything. A creeping numbness had taken over his body and had stayed there since three days ago. Since the day he almost…

Wesley shook his head and came back to the room. It was his flat. He had lived there for several years now. This place with the pale blue paint and worn furniture had always been a place of comfort to him after all was said and done. It was somewhere he could relax and feel safe in the aftermath of all the close calls and soul-scathing adventures. But now? Things were different. The paint seemed cold and distant. The furniture was tattered and unwelcoming. This apartment had become a tomb and he was set to seal himself in it and perhaps never resurface.

All because of one day. Wesley turned his expressionless face from the wall to the couch in his livingroom. The room became alight with light and laughter and a feeling of warmth overtook his place. Two faceless men sat on the couch, laughing and moving and making inconsequential conversations. Next to the blurs sat Fred. Her dark hair framed her face, cascading down over her shoulders like a rolling waterfall. Her red lips were curled oh-so carefully into a smile, as if she was unsure if she were permitted to smile.

Wesley's eyes watered and a crooked smile forced its way onto his face. Fred's smile slowly became more genuine and her eyes sparkled in a dazzling charm that captivated Wes's entire being. Her beauty eclipsed that of any woman Wesley had encountered. It wasn't a surface kind of power, but it was her soul shining through that had Wesley's attention. Her brilliance, her bravery, her kindness. She was simply perfection.

Slowly, Fred turned her head and locked eyes with Wesley. He remained frozen with her gaze. He simply could not look away and tried to force his smile into a more real smile. Fred, on the other hand let the light fade slowly from her eyes as the smile left her face entirely. She looked so sad. So small on that couch. So vulnerable.

Then she was gone.

The light had gone out and Wesley was alone in his apartment again. And, just like that, the numbness gave way and he was overcome with a rush of stabbing guilt. Suddenly, he recalled the moment that numbness first came to him.

Wesley's eyes snapped open and a sudden pain came to him, as if he had been hit by a brick. No, something else red. What was it? Angel was standing over him and gave him a look of concern. Gunn was waiting in a chair across the room. Wesley was in a bed, but it was not his own.

"What-what happened?" Wesley asked, trying to sit up.

"Take it easy," Angel urged, coming forward to stop Wesley from rising.

The pain intensified and Wesley reached a hand to the bruise around his eye. In a flash, it all came back to him. Him hitting Fred, her running, him chasing, seeking her out. Her near-demise, and eventual trap to stop him. Sheer terror overcame him, and his eyes locked with Gunn, whose head wound confirmed these memories.

"No," Wesley choked out.

Angel put his hand on Wesley's shoulder. "It's alright, Wes."

"Fred," Wesley continued, distressed, "Is she alright? Please god tell me I didn't-"

"It's alright, she's safe," Angel replied. "She's okay."

Wesley gave Angel the look of a broken man.

"Fred...I almost-"

"Don't, Wesley," Angel explained, "You didn't have any control. You couldn't have stopped it. It's not your fault."

Wesley stayed silent. He only stared off into the distance, feeling a pain in his chest far worse than that on his head and cheek. He wished he could have felt a thousand times the physical pain not to feel what he was feeling spread across his body.

Angel and Gunn both spoke to him, but what they said was lost on him. He gave a response here and there when the conversation required it, but he paid little attention to what was told to him. What he did recall was his agreement to taking a few days off to recover. In a blur of time, he found himself standing outside Fred's door in the hotel. A part of him wanted nothing more than to knock on her door and apologize, but that seemed out of the question.

He found reality again in his apartment, alone in the dark and feeling the weight of what he did fall onto him, crushing him into the floorboards. He collapsed onto his couch and the tears fell freely.

How could he ever apologize? What if she wasn't safe anymore? She wouldn't be safe around him.

Time became an endless stretch of merely existing. He relived his actions over and over again, replayed the look of shock, horror, and betrayal on Fred's face. He saw his hand over and over again reach out and strike her. He must have hit her thousands of times. It just happened time and time again. Each time she looked back up at him with such a wounded look. He did so much more than damage her physically. Suddenly, his striking hand wasn't empty, but clutched the cold steel of an axe. He could never forgive himself for what he had done.

Over the next few days, he lost track of time. The sun rose and fell outside, but the curtains didn't open. The lights never went on. Wesley went about his daily routine in a haze. He sometimes ate, sometimes drank, sometimes slept. He'd shower without feeling the water on him. He'd sleep without the hope of feeling rested, or the chance to wake from this nightmare. It wasn't until the third day that guilt, above all other feelings enveloped him.

Wesley grabbed a pad and pen and sat down at his kitchen table and convinced himself it was time to do anything he could to tell Fred how sorry he was. Taking in a deep breath, he tried to pen his thoughts.

_My Dear Fred_

Wesley stopped. My dear? He shook his head and crumpled up the paper. No, that sounded possessive. It might come off wrong.

_Dearest Fred_

Dearest? The paper hit the floor and he tried again.

_Fred,_

_I'm writing this letter to apologize for what I've done. No amount of paper can cover the amount of apologies I need to give you_

No.

_Fred, _

_I cannot express deeply enough how sorry I am for what happened. I didn't mean for any harm to come to you. I would never do anything to hurt you. There are no words for_

He angrily tossed the paper and heard it clatter on the floor.

_Fred,_

_I don't know how to apologize for something I know is beyond apologies. The most extreme words cannot convey to you the depth of my sorrow at having caused you pain. I feel as though _

Wesley sat back in his chair as the paper hit the floor and allowed a huff to escape his lips. He was growing frustrated with himself and ever more sorrowful and certain that nothing he could say would make her feel any better. He didn't deserve her forgiveness. Licking his lips and swallowing, he took the pen again.

_Dear Fred,_

_Since shortly after I met you, I got the sense that you were like no one I had ever met. There was something special about you. I found you witty, clever, charming, and of the utmost level of importance to me. I cannot explain why. You captivated me. You, with all your quirks and peculiar nature only drew me in all the further._

_I did not know what Billy's blood would do to me, and it was foolish of me to have been so careless with the evidence as to let it touch me. I should have been more careful. I could have hurt or killed someone I_

Wesley paused.

_care for very much. I will never in my lifetime be able to tell you how sorry I am, and the immense disgust in myself for what has happened. I understand if you never wish to see me again. I will leave you alone. I cannot trust myself to be near you when I became what I did. You are too good, too important, too dear for me to risk something like this again. I am so very sorry for what I've done. I can never forgive myself for it. I don't expect you to either. _

_I hope you are well,_

_All my love,_

Wesley tore the paper into tiny shreds and crumpled them into a ball that he threw at the wall. He heard the paper fall the floor behind the chair and he resumed staring at the unopened curtains. It was hopeless. He was hopeless. There was nothing he could say. She deserved so much better, but there was nothing he could do. Any action would pale in comparison to what he wished he could do for her.

He was beyond hope.

Suddenly, there was a knock on his door.

Wesley had ignored anyone who had come to his door in the past few days. He had no desire to see anyone. Then, a voice called his name. Fred.

"Wesley, it's me, Fred."

He reluctantly rose from his chair and walked slowly to the door, uncertain what he would say to her. What words would suffice where his written word had failed over and over? Carefully opening the door, the faint light from the hall pooled in, and standing there, offering a sad smile, was Fred. He was happy to see her. The sight of her always brought joy and butterflies to him, but all happiness was drained as he saw the handprint on her cheek. The one he put there.

Almost immediately Fred's expression turned to one of concern, and she stepped forward, looking over Wesley's injuries. Wesley, on the other hand, couldn't bare to look up at her, and kept his gaze to the floor.

"Does that hurt?" she asked softly, reaching for his cheek.

Wesley drew back, shying away from her touch. Tears threatened to fall, but he held them back, keeping his eyes from meeting hers.

"Sorry," Fred added, looking reluctant. A silence fell over them while Wesley tried to collect his thoughts. He tried to search his mind for words that he couldn't find at the table. Where to even start? Fred, finally, was the first to break the silence.

"I...I left a bunch of messages."

Wesley looked up to meet her eyes a moment but looked back down again. He nodded.

"Yes…" he replied, barely above a whisper, his voice broken and unused. "I meant to call you back...I'm sorry." Wesley looked into her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, eyes watering heavily. He could barely manage to choke out those words.

Fred gave the tiniest hint of a reassuring smile, but her eyes were full of worry. Wesley feared her uncertainty was due to the terror he caused her.

"Wesley," Fred began, widening her sad smile and shaking her head, "You gotta come back to work."

Wesley gave her a look of doubt. He couldn't go back to work. He was incapable of doing good for anyone, much less her. Besides, what if he did something to hurt her again? He couldn't risk any of that.

"How can I?" he asked, voice slightly stronger now.

"What do you mean?" Fred asked, incredulous, "How can you not? You're the boss. We need you."

She paused.

"You took a few days off. That's good. We all did…" she explained, "But now it's time to come back."

"Fred…" His voice broke again, "I tried to _kill_ you."

She shook her head at him. "That wasn't you…"

"How can you know that? Something inside me was forced to the surface. Something primal. Something-"

"Do you wanna kill me?" Fred cut in.

A look of horror took over Wesley's face.

"Oh god no…" he whispered, closing his eyes as if to shut out her words.

"It wasn't something in you, Wesley," she insisted, "It was something that was done to you."

Wesley swallowed and trained his gaze on her.

"I don't know what kind of man I am anymore." The words sounded frail, even to him.

Fred let out a little huff and gave Wesley a pitying look.

"Well I do," she began quietly. Wesley looked back at her, unsure how she might finish that sentence. "You're a good man."

Silence hung over the room again and the two kept their eyes on each other. Wesley didn't fully believe her words, but something about them still made the pain in his chest subside very slightly.

Fred cocked her head to the side. "Will I see you back at the office?"

Wesley looked back down and thought a moment. Part of him wanted to never set foot in that hotel again. To never be near her. He shouldn't put her in danger again. It wasn't safe for her to be around someone like him. He can't protect her from himself unless he stays away. Still...what if she was right? Could she be safe around him?

Despite himself, he nodded slowly, keeping his eyes to the floor. Maybe things would be okay. He could do what he could to make up for what he had done. He could spend every minute with her trying to make up for what he did.

"Yeah," he croaked.

"Good," she smiled gently.

Slowly, she stepped back out through the door. Wesley knew there was nothing else she could say to him to make him feel any better. It was probably best for her to go home. As she headed out, Wesley closed the door behind her. Almost instantly the pain enveloped him and he broke down. The tears came and soft sobs wracked his body. He couldn't forgive himself. What he had done was too terrible.

Maybe he could rebuild.

Outside the door, Fred listened to the sounds of Wesley's despair and felt a pain in her heart. He blamed himself for something that he couldn't have prevented. It wasn't his fault. She could feel a helplessness in being unable to relieve his pain. It would take time, but maybe it would be okay again.

Maybe.


End file.
